Burning Genius
by FluffyShrekGirl
Summary: He fell in love with a lady violinist... onesided Taiora.


Burning Genius

DISCLAIMER: I don't own digimon or the characters, and I don't own the poem – it's 'Burning Genius' by Brian Patten. A Taiora today, even if it is angsty and one-sided as per. I love this poem, and I hope you guys do too – part of the reason I'm writing this fic is to share this poem with others. However, for some reason upon reading the first line again last night, I was struck with a picture of Sora. Admittedly in the picture she was playing a cello not a violin, but anyway. The bold type is a flashback. Enjoy!

_He fell in love with a lady violinist,_

_It was absurd the lengths he went to win her affection._

_He gave up his job in the Civil Service._

_He followed her from concert hall to concert hall,_

_bought every available biography of Beethoven,_

_learnt German fluently,_

_brooded over the exact nature of inhuman suffering,_

Tai Kamiya hoisted his bag over his shoulder as he took one last look at the Civil Service building that had been part of his life for so long. Normally he was a cheerful young man with wild hair and a boyish smile, but today his face was unusually sober. It was an unusual day, after all. A day of endings – but also a day of beginnings.

A short walk took him to the nearby train station, and obtaining a ticket for the next train to London he settled down on a bench by the tracks to wait patiently for the distant rumble that would herald its arrival. As he waited, he pulled a German phrasebook out of his backpack and absently thumbed through it, occasionally muttering a guttural phrase under his breath and attracting odd looks. The train did not take long, and soon instead of being on a dusty bench in the great outdoors murmuring the German for 'I believe Beethoven was one of the greatest composers who ever lived' he was stretched out on comfy blue train seats reading a biography of his previously uttered composer and pondering the inhuman suffering that occurred the world over.

He had repeated similar actions so many times that now it seemed almost natural. He rarely associated these new pastimes with his current goal.

_but all to no avail – _

**Tai leant on the sill of his attic window and gazed across the few metres of sky separating his house from the one directly across from it. From here, he could see perfectly the sliding bow, the bobbing brunette head, and the beautiful instrumentalist upon whose shoulders it rested. The violin was cradled lovingly under her chin, and she swayed and ducked gently to a rhythm that he could not hear. On her sill, tiny birds twittered, as though to them her music was some rare delicacy.**

**Day and night he watched her play, but day and night she remained oblivious to him, and day and night his heart ached with love for the famous violinist Sora Takenouchi.**

_Day and night she sat in her attic room,_

_she sat playing day and night,_

_oblivious of him,_

_and of even the sparrows that perched on her skylight mistaking her music for food._

In London, he watched her play again at the Royal Albert Hall, a stunning medley of Beethoven and Wagner, and wished desperately that he had something like that to offer her.

_To impress her, he began to study music in earnest._

_Soon he was dismissing Vivaldi and praising Wagner._

_He wrote concertos in his spare time,_

_wrote operas about doomed astronauts and about monsters who, when kissed,_

_became even more furious and ugly._

_He wrote eight symphonies taking care to leave several unfinished._

Tai's hand flew over the pages, notating furiously. The bellboy who had arrived with his luggage was amazed as to how fast he came up with the melodies, but upon enquiring sadly received some of Tai's newly-developed musical temperament, and left with the odd feeling that the musical man in Room 24 was actually rather lonely, and perhaps in spite of the anger in his voice had welcomed some kind of interruption.

_It was exhausting_

_And he found no time to return to that attic room._

_In fact, he grew old and utterly famous._

"So, Tai Kamiya."

The talk show host – they all seemed the same these days, all running into the same clichéd persona – leaned forward conspiratorially. Tai found this absurd, knowing that as they spoke they were being watched by millions on satellite TV.

"To what do you owe your 'burning genius', as it has been dubbed? Where do you get your inspiration?"

A faint smile crossed Tai's features, features that had gradually become wrinkled as the years had taken their toll. "Life. Turning points. Inspiring things."

The audience did not think he was avoiding the question – rather, they praised him later for his enigmatic behaviour. Anyone watching him after the show would have seen him sitting at a table, staring blankly into space, as though his mind was far, far away.

_And when asked to what he owed_

_his burning genius,_

_he shrugged and said little,_

_but his mind gaped back until he saw before him_

_the image of the tiny room,_

_and perched on the skylight the timid_

_skeletons of sparrows still listened on._


End file.
